Flight of the Hawk: The River

  “Baptiste”—Tylor met the man’s eyes—“my life is in your hands. If you tell anyone, I will suffer. For your information—since I know you are loyal to Mr. Lisa—I do not intend to harm his expedition in any way. You have my word on that. This is just a way for me to escape. Do you see—”

  “You are safe, John Tylor. I know men well. I have worked with you long enough to know. I shall not even tell the bourgeois. I will tell him that you are a fine man running from a woman. That, he will understand, and it will satisfy most of his curiosity.”

  Darkness had fallen as they talked.

  A loud boom thundered into the night from the direction of Polly.

  “Signal shot,” Latoulipe guessed. “We’d better go back.”

  The boatman started back up the trail, Tylor dogging his heels.

  Why in the name of God did I tell Latoulipe?

  The words that General James Wilkinson had told him that night so long ago now haunted him: “When more than one person knows a secret, it is a secret no longer.”

  Wilkinson—once Tylor’s good friend and confidante—had orchestrated the double-cross, had turned he and Aaron over to Jefferson and the raging Andrew Jackson.

  As they trotted along, the unsavory urge to shoot Latoulipe in the back slipped around in Tylor’s mind. He could say it was an accident, that he tripped in the darkness, snagged the hammer on his rifle, and bang.

  Is that really the sort of man you have become?

  Even more disturbing, he wasn’t sure he knew the answer.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  * * *

  “I’ve got him!” Joshua Gregg’s voice had taken on that oily reek of satisfaction as he stood in the ornate parlor at Burnt Oaks. The waxed walnut walls, the mantel with its Belgian clock, and the fine French furniture were forgotten as he stared at the letter in his hands.

  “Don’t be too sure.” Hallie Gregg glanced at her husband’s face. The malice in his smile made her shudder. Once again, she could see the streak of hate in Joshua Gregg. He was a full-bodied man already tending toward fat. His blue eyes had once upon a time been home to the dancing lights of amusement. Now they were becoming flat and unanimated. That broad jaw that used to lend his face authority seemed to emphasize the flattened twisted nose. John had done that to him when they were boys.

  Hallie straightened herself and stepped to the mirror. Her face, too, had changed in the few months since they had been married. Small lines had formed around her eyes; a lackluster acceptance lurked where once her eyes had dreamed. She was unaccustomed to the tightness around her mouth.

  She had been Joshua’s most recent conquest. Only John’s life remained to block her husband’s complete and ultimate victory. Looking past her shoulder, she wished she could see John’s reflection in the mirror instead of Joshua’s gloating, crooked smile. Tylor had always been kind and thoughtful—even if he had left her and run off to the west.

  Joshua wasn’t a likeable man, and she hadn’t been attracted to him even when he’d courted her years before. After John had left, Joshua had been so kind. And she—aching from the knowledge that her then-divorced husband had been branded a traitor—had been easy prey.

  She’d had a choice: life on the margins of society as a pariah, or status and comfort as mistress of Burnt Oaks, and Joshua’s wife.

  Her sour laugh startled her. Oh, sure, easy prey! A disgraced woman no proper man would have, she’d never questioned Joshua’s motives. Now, married, Joshua Gregg became the master of the old Tylor estate just across the line in Virginia as well as the original Gregg Plantation, Burnt Oaks, lost so many years before to William Tylor for back debts.

  “Oh, I have him, Hallie.” Joshua’s smile widened. “Make no doubt of it. I hired the right man. McKeever will be my arm of justice, believe me. God knows I’m paying him enough. Not only that, but he’s more than a match for John Tylor. Even if that damned traitor figures out who McKeever’s working for.”

  Gregg let his eyes scan the papers in his hand again. “McKeever has hired on to go upriver with Manuel Lisa and his company. He’s working side-by-side with Tylor, and the damn fool doesn’t have the slightest hint McKeever has been sent to kill him.”

  Gregg didn’t see her start. Hallie took a deep breath. She’d wished for John’s death often enough. That was just after he had escaped from the soldiers. At the time she’d been a social leper. Cast out from Washington society, she’d prayed for any kind of horrid death to fall on her ex-husband. Now, looking back, she could see with clearer eyes.

  It’s not like I was without blame. I knew, urged John on.

  She, too, had dreamed of a great estate in Aaron Burr’s new country, of what it would be like to walk on a high minister’s arm. A new sort of royalty. A founding family in a new republic. Oh, she’d been just as guilty. Truth be told, her anger and disgust with John came from the fact he hadn’t been able to pull it off.

  Am I such a shallow creature?

  The woman staring back in the mirror nodded in affirmation.

  “Not only that,” Gregg continued, “but McKeever writes that he will have an in-depth understanding of the river trade. When Astor makes his move, we’ll be ready to take over that territory. Astor won’t have anyone who knows the river like my man McKeever. That puts the reins of control in my hands, dear.”

  “I shouldn’t think John Jacob Astor would be anyone’s fool, Joshua. If he’s making moves for the Missouri, he’ll have his own men to put in place. Why should he come to you? Why wouldn’t—”

  “Who?” Gregg spat contemptuously. “Crooks? McClellan? Hunt? They’re all slated for the Pacific. Astor needs them to run the Columbia end of the business. Charles Gratiot? The man’s too old, doesn’t have a firsthand man on the river. No, Astor will come to me. I’ve invested a lot with him.”

  “You place a lot of trust in this McKeever. You’re in North Carolina, he’s in Saint Louis. What makes you think he won’t cut you out of the—”

  “You’re a fool, Hallie! A woman shouldn’t meddle in a man’s affairs. I know my worth to Astor. He owes me.”

  How could Joshua always be so cocksure of himself? Hallie swallowed uneasily. Her thoughts kept returning to John: He’d been kind and thoughtful. He’d always listened, nodded, and even if he disagreed, had told her so without disparagement. Nor had he ever laid a hand on her in violence.

  She shuddered at the memory of her wedding night. Her only experience had been with John, who took her to the wedding bed a virgin, and taught her the meaning of “making love.” Joshua had taught her the violent definition of “rutting.”

  Nothing had improved since then.

  She supposed even a dockside whore was treated with greater kindness than she while servicing Joshua. Against her will, her memories turned to the times she and John had held each other during the long winter nights. She could see the soft light in his eyes as he hugged and loved her. If it was true that a man could be judged by his attentions to his wife, John Tylor had been a mountain compared to the brutal molehill of Joshua Gregg.

  What in the name of heaven have I done to myself?

  Biting her lip, she realized that John Tylor in shame and disfavor had been a far better fate than Joshua Gregg in gloating success.

  “And if the Columbia ends up British after the war is over?” Hallie continued to bait him. “How will—”

  “Enough!” Gregg barked, eyes narrowed. “It is almost as if you—you of all people—would have me fail! Would that amuse you, dear one? Or do you delight in the failures of the men you marry?”

  His glare bored into her as if to see her soul.

  “No, Joshua. I would just as soon that you won. I—I’m not sure I’d like to live with you if you lost.”

  A sudden, violent anger shook him. Just as quickly, he regained control and laughed wickedly. His voice mocked affection. “Oh, my dear Hallie, you are preciously bold. I enjoy that in you. No one else would dare to be flippant with me. You are brave to treat me t
hus.”

  She tried to stare him down defiantly, but couldn’t in the end. Slowly her eyes dropped.

  “Yes, dear Hallie, I’m stronger than you. Stronger than any man you’ve ever known. Please, don’t ever forget that. If you ever try me too severely, I want you to know, I’ll destroy you. Slowly.”

  He crossed the parlor in fast steps, grabbed her, and spun her around. His fingers sank into her flesh, bruising, and his eyes hammered his will into her. He slapped her hard, the crack loud in the room. “So you don’t forget, dear.”

  Blinking back tears from the pain and shock, she saw violent truth: I am married to a monster.

  What could she do? Where could she go?

  Shaking loose, she walked unsteadily from the room. Unseeing, she ignored the fine carpets and the beautiful hallways. Numbed by the aching loneliness inside, she climbed the winding stairs, her touch lightly tracing the polished wood of the banister. With careful fingers she probed her stinging cheek.

  At the top of the stairs, she paused to look down over the main hall. She peopled it with the men and women who’d once come to gay parties. The elegant mansion had laughed then, and she’d looked forward to a future of hope, of wealth and luxury. As the orchestra had played the latest music of Mozart, she’d sighed at her escape from Tylor’s infamy.

  A crooked smile bent her lips. Escape?

  How foolish she’d been. The irony of it wasn’t lost on her. In her young fantasy she’d thought wealth and position everything for a beautiful girl. How could she have been so blind to all the rest?

  She had that position now: Joshua Gregg was one of the most prestigious of the rising young businessmen in the United States. He had wealth enough for her and power that could turn men’s heads up and down the coast. All hers by having married the monster.

  She entered the master bedroom and dressed for bed. After she had pulled the covers over her, she shivered and bit her thumb. Joshua had hired a man to take John’s life. Worse, they were going to play him first, like a cat did with a mouse.

  The almost physical memory of John’s touch returned to her. She could feel again how his strong hands caressed her. He was looking into her eyes and smiling with that ambitious world-daunting grin. His hair was unruly and tousled, boyish to match his enthusiasm.

  How could she save him? Aaron Burr was out of the question. He was too far away in Europe. And—from what she’d been able to piece together—he was a broken man living in a fantasy world. Wilkinson had too many troubles of his own, and he’d washed his hands after the betrayal. Worse, he was Gregg’s close friend. He’d been instrumental in setting the trap in Nashville.

  She’d need someone in the west. Someone who was trustworthy and a man of reputation. Hallie’s heart dropped. She’d never met anyone from the west outside of Andrew Jackson and some of the congressmen. Jackson would be the last one to help. She found a bit of macabre amusement in the fact she’d even considered him.

  One thing was sure. When John made enemies, he didn’t do a halfway job of it. Unbidden, she replayed that night when John and Burr were so deeply engrossed in conversation. That had been the night when William Clark had come to dinner after returning from the Pacific with Captain Lewis.

  As they had talked, she had seen Tylor’s eyes light up as the dream had been born. If only she had known then what she knew now. She could have stopped him in time.

  “Fool,” she mumbled huskily. “The west was in John’s blood from the beginning. I couldn’t stop the wind.”

  But maybe she should have gone with him. She experienced a sudden welling of hope within her. Yes! That was it! She could leave Joshua Gregg and journey west until she found Tylor. A thrill surged under her heart.

  Her imagination led her to a grass-covered hilltop. In the woods below them stood a rustic little log cabin with a blue curl of smoke coming from the chimney. She could see a stack of freshly split firewood and horses and cows grazing in an emerald pasture.

  She would run into John Tylor’s arms and once more see the merry play of humor in his eyes. His strong muscular arms would wind around her body. There would be the hardness of his chest and stomach, the firmness of his muscular thighs.

  And dirt, and squalor, and work.

  Her mind brought her back to reality. She’d seen the dirt farmers in Tennessee and Kentucky. Witnessed the women and the conditions they labored under.

  Hallie sighed and pulled the covers tighter. It was no use. She was who she was, and she liked being rich and pampered. She could live no other way; deep inside she knew it and accepted it. Nevertheless, she had to do something for John. He’d never intentionally hurt her. From this distance, she could recognize that.

  In her memory, John’s face turned bright as he laughed at one of Clark’s stories about a bear chase.

  Hallie stiffened. Of course! Clark was just the person. He was a man of honor. If a woman appealed to him as a lady to a gentleman—the general would do something. A weight seemed to lift off her as she began planning her moves.

  Communications were difficult with the war building to full fury. Still, a woman with money and power had the means of dealing with paltry problems like war.

  She was still planning out her moves, composing her letter in her mind, when Joshua entered the room. The light mood died with his weight on the bed. He’d been away from her for so many nights, why did he pick this one to come to her?

  He ripped the covers back, and she was left defenseless.

  “Would you like to remove your nightdress, or have me tear it off of you?”

  With shaking fingers, she complied, then lay back. As he lowered himself onto her, she cringed. He was only there to make his victory over John Tylor more complete. She fought her revulsion as he began to fondle and kiss her.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  * * *

  “Mierda!” Lisa spat angrily as Tylor and Latoulipe told him the results of their scout downriver. “No sign of the little boat? Thank you, I appreciate your efforts. The hunters returned with their horses loaded with meat. You haven’t eaten yet. The cook has kept some hot for you. Tonight, Latoulipe, eat all the meat you can hold.” Lisa waved them away, irritation and worry eating at him.

  Tylor restowed his rifle and possibles and led the way down the plank to shore. Camp was back in the cottonwoods where a roaring fire was crackling.

  “Lisa will make those on the little boat wish they were anywhere but on this river,” Latoulipe confided, staring out into the night, his grin broader than before. Was he truly thinking about the little boat’s patroon, or was he even now thinking over the ways he might put Tylor’s confession to work for his own ends?

  Why the hell did I shoot off my mouth like that?

  From here on out, he’d pay for it in worry and fear if nothing else.

  Hours later, exhausted physically and emotionally, Tylor finally dropped off to sleep, only to dream and see the twisted face of Joshua Gregg. As he surrendered to a deeper sleep, the dreams intensified and he was back, in Nashville, reliving that day . . .

  He looked up again at the warm, bright sun in the cloudless blue sky and saw how the buildings, shops, and homes of the little outpost of America stood out in the morning. Built inside a loop of the Cumberland River, the community had become a center for settlement as stalwart families chopped homes out of the Tenneesee forests. Winter-bare trees formed a backdrop to the rutted roads that led to the interior.

  John Tylor had stepped out of the pirogue and onto the landing where keelboats, flatboats, and mackinaws were tied. Tylor had hired a couple of French voyageurs who had carried him up past Fort Massac and the Cumberland River to Nashville. Smiling in the morning sun he was grateful to be free of the boat, finished with cold camps, and to be rid of the voyageurs. Not that he had anything against French rivermen, but these two had bickered with each other the entire trip.

  Nashville meant a bath, a night in a bed, and a hot meal he didn’t have to cook. All he had to do was check
and see if Burr and his men had picked up the supplies and barges built by an unsuspecting Andrew Jackson. It had been a great swindle. Bearing forged papers, Vice President Burr had conned the indomitable Jackson to build enough barges to carry Aaron’s building army downriver. Jackson had also been persuaded to stockpile supplies for the campaign.

  Tylor had just returned from a scout of the Pawnee villages. His mission had been to determine the nature of the relationship between the plains raiders and the Spanish prior to a movement of men and materiel into western Louisiana and Texas. At the time, the Pawnee were warring with Santa Fe. Prime opportunity for Burr’s planned invasion of Texas and Mexico, an act that would carve a new nation out of the American wilderness.

  Tylor had come to Nashville in hopes of meeting up with Burr and providing his intelligence on the Pawnees. If the expedition had left—hardly likely since he had just come upriver—he would have no choice but to paddle back downriver in an attempt to overtake Burr’s men before they reached the rendezvous at Bayou Pierre. There, a man named Bruin would provide them a preliminary base of operations.

  Tylor walked up the narrow, rocky dirt street from the riverfront and was amazed at how much Nashville had grown since the last time he had been there. A constant bustle of new construction could be seen as a city was hacked and hammered out of rolling, tree-covered hills in the wilderness.

  At the Goose Tavern—a low-ceilinged, dimly lit, log structure supposedly run by a sympathizer—Tylor had ordered a cool mug of pale ale, and asked whether or not the expedition had picked up the boats.

  “Damn sure did, mister,” the tavern keeper growled. “You oughta seen ole Andy Jackson when he heard what they was up to! I swear, was I Aaron Burr, I wouldn’t want t’ be this side o’ Hell wi’ the gen’ral after me. I d’clare, ole Andy whar so mad, I hear’d he bent a rifle barrel wi’ his b’ar hands.”

  “Oh,” Tylor asked feeling a sudden presentiment of disaster. “I’d heard that Burr was on a government mission. I thought—”